


Perfection

by GrimmsFairytale



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit, Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimmsFairytale/pseuds/GrimmsFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a sudden, white-hot flash in Guildenstern’s mind, back to when his clenched fist had slammed into that milky cheek, turning it into a fiery red color as the Player jerked back, one hand clutching at the rapidly-approaching bruise. The coals burning bright in the Player’s eyes as his head whipped around to stare at Guildenstern, fist held loosely in midair as he stared in wonderment at this perfect creature before him. It must have been the twirl of his too-bright hair in the monochromatic background of the shady forest.</p><p>AN1: It's better to imagine a young man as the Player in this story, as opposed to Richard Dreyfuss. He's a great actor, but not so good with chemistry.</p><p>AN2: This particular story is more akin to the play than the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection

Guildenstern looked down at the Player, with his lips forming a perfect “O”, eyes perfectly-lidded, and smooth, unwrinkled cheeks flushed and shining with perfect, perfect sweat. His dark, plum-shaded hair sticking to his forehead and then poking up in random angles around his head and forming a halo against the white pillow.

 

There was a sudden, white-hot flash in Guildenstern’s mind, back to when his clenched fist had slammed into that milky cheek, turning it into a fiery red color as the Player jerked back, one hand clutching at the rapidly-approaching bruise. The coals burning bright in the Player’s eyes as his head whipped around to stare at Guildenstern, fist held loosely in midair as he stared in wonderment at this perfect creature before him. It must have been the twirl of his too-bright hair in the monochromatic background of the shady forest.

 

Guildenstern let his eyes travel down to the Player’s sweat-slick, perfect neck, and his shining collar bone, those not-too-slim, not-too-broad shoulders, his symmetrical nipples, one casually being circled by Guildenstern’s finger, the slim, heaving waist. His eyes flicked, once to the Player’s left hand, then to his right, both clenched tightly in the bed sheets, long fingers twisted in the sinfully perfect white sheets. There existed a small, almost iridescent scar on this perfect being’s left hand, and Guildenstern thought he might set fire to whatever put it there, if he ever found out.

 

Guildenstern’s vision suddenly transitioned from this shuddering, beautiful creature to another area, in the royal castle of Denmark, not three hours ago, when the Player had dashed from side to side across a stage full of filthy beings in masks and ragged robes, a slight sheen on his forehead from his breathless, breath-taking narration of the stage directions and the heat of the late summer. He thought of when his faithless hands had shot out and grabbed at the lapels of the Player’s coat, yanking him back to stare into those unreadable blue eyes. He vaguely remembered seeing a drop of sweat trickling down the Player’s neck, and he vaguely recalls barely being able to resist dragging his tongue up the length of that flawless neck, making the Player moan, shout, scream his name, right there, in front of all of those other foul, filthy humans.

 

He allowed his mind to shift scenes, a bright flash occurring before Guildenstern saw himself slam the Player into the wall and kiss him, hard, painfully hard on those full, soft lips. He remembers the Player’s hands come up to grip his shoulders, and then remembers grabbing those ridiculously soft fingers and crushing them to the wall. He recalls using his superior height to push the Player further into the wall, and then hearing a small, almost invisible whimper of pain as he bit down on those lips. Those perfect, perfect lips.

 

And then he recollects murmuring into this perfect being’s mouth, “How far would a coin take this?”

 

And then he recollects that perfect being whispering back, “As far as you’d like.”

 

The rest is a blur of skin and missing clothing and stolen kisses and low moans and dirty whispers as they made it to the room granted to Guildenstern and Rosencrantz for their stay and on to the bed with the slippery, pure white silk sheets, Guildenstern kneeling between the Player’s legs as he looks down at this perfect being with his lips forming a perfect “O”, eyes perfectly-lidded, and cheeks flushed and shining with perfect, perfect sweat. His dark, plum-shaded hair sticking to his forehead and then poking up in random angles around his head and forming a halo against the white pillow.

 

A whispery command falls from those reddened lips- “Get on with it” and Guildenstern almost expects to hear his name at the end of it, but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t.

 

He begins to push in slowly, slowly into the Player, who makes a quiet moan every time Guildenstern reaches another inch inside of him. Then, suddenly, he’s completely inside this perfect creature and he’s moving back and forth, slowly, but growing feverish with every thrust. And he snarls and grips the Player’s wrists with a force hard enough to bruise and listens to a strangled cry fall from the Player’s lips with the ferocity of his thrusts, and he sucks a hickey into the Player’s neck when he feels those long, perfect legs wrap around his waist.

 

Then there’s a moment where the Player arches off the bed, a startled shout falling from his lips, his chest bumping with Guildenstern's when he hits a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves, and then Guildenstern feels no remorse or pity as he rips the Player apart, trying to shred that shining skin and tear his organs apart, rip his tongue out and bruise his beautiful face until it’s entirely discolored with his mind. He realizes that his grip on the Player’s wrists has grown tighter and tighter, and it’s not until the Player writhes underneath him, trying to get away from those crushing hands that he climaxes, and feels the Player do the same and then he simply holds onto those slim white wrists, now purple and red, and stare down with flashing eyes at this… perfect creature.

 

Guildenstern pulls himself away and begins to dress, leaving the Player sweat-soaked and shuddering on the bed. It takes him less than a minute to pull on his clothes, leaving the buttons on his coat undone and the laces on his boots dragging on the floor. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a single coin and then throws it on the floor. Then he looks back up at the Player, whose wrists are an alarming shade of purple, whose chest is rising with a steady, perfect rhythm, whose face is in a beautiful combination of discomfort and bliss, whose skin still shines with that ideal shine. He looks beautiful. Guildenstern stares, and realizes that, in his mission to make this faultless being, this beautiful creature a soiled, filthy beast, he just perfected him.

 

He does not check to see which side the coin shows as he stalks out the door.


End file.
